Fic: Falling (Bob/Greta)
Title: Falling
Pairing: Bob/Greta
Note: For carelton97. Also for hc_bingo square exhaustion and bedtime rituals schmoop_bingo. Was supposed to use the superhero square for au_bingo except that didn't really end up being enough of a focus. I've been staring at this for a week trying to figure out what it's missing, I think I just have to post it now. I'm just posting this to my DW/LJ for now, feel free to point out if there's something it's missing.
---
They're watching a movie. Bob isn't really sure what; his mind started wandering even before Greta pushed play, about the same time he sank into the couch. It's threadbare and a little lumpy in some places, a hand me down from a cousin who acquired it when a roommate moved out and left half his shit behind. Probably rescued from a trash heap before that, Bob thinks, but they don't really mind. It's comfortable enough. Bob sits against the arm, and Greta leans against his side. She sets the bowl of popcorn--made in a pot on a stove rather than the microwave, with butter infused with lime zest and a little kick of chili powder, their date night finesse--where they can both reach it but it's safe from everything but the dog's hopeful eye.
Jimmy Stewart is on the screen, but Bob can't focus enough to follow the plot. Instead he's thinking about what he needs to prep when he gets to the kitchen tomorrow, what he should order next week, whether Brian's going to find the CDs he asked for, nothing at all.
"Hey," Greta says eventually. Her hand is on his thigh, warm and companionable rather than with the promise of anything more. "You look wiped. Let's go to bed."
He looks at the screen. Jimmy's still talking, it doesn't sound like he's any closer to winding down. "Movie's not over yet."
Greta smiles. "I know how it ends, and I'm pretty sure you don't even know how it begins."
He kisses her hair. "Sorry."
"Don't be. You work hard."
"So do you. This was supposed to be about unwinding."
"For both of us, not just me. Sleeping is restful, it's why they call it sleep." She sits up and drops some popcorn for the dog. "Come on, mister. I won't take no for an answer."
“Yes, master,” he says like it’s a task he’d rather not have. The truth is, though, he’s glad for the out. “Come on, Danger.”
The dog is hunting for every last crumb of her snack, but he perks up when Bob sits up. He runs for the door before Bob can even stand, waits there impatiently while Bob pulls his leash out from behind a bunch of coats. They take the stairs because Danger is still afraid of the elevator. Bob can’t blame him; he’s not the biggest fan of feeling boxed in like that himself.
Outside it’s cold, cold enough that Bob thinks he should’ve grabbed one of the jackets. The leaves are starting to change, starting to come loose in the sharp wind that whips at them. After he’s done taking a leak Danger chases one as far as the slack on the leash will let him. “Stupid dog,” Bob snorts fondly.
They stretch their legs around the block. Their rundown apartment building takes up most of it, along with a squat little Lutheran church and a few businesses around the bus stop that the few people coming and going this late at night barely pay attention to. The owner of the convenience store is smoking outside the door when Bob and Danger pass. He gives them a once over, like he’s casing them before they can case him. He must decide he doesn’t mind what he sees, because he nods hello. Bob nods back. Danger tries to go after him to be petted but Bob keeps the leash short until they’re back around the corner.
The dog tries to walk past the door to their building but Bob isn’t up for another round. “I’ll take you for a long walk on my next day off,” he promises, but he still thinks the wag of Danger’s tail is just the slightest bit disappointed.
When they get inside he hangs the leash back up and Danger disappears toward the bedroom. Bob can hear water running in the bathroom; he detours toward the other side of the apartment where Greta is rinsing off the last of her face wash in the bathroom.
She meets his eyes in the mirror. “Did you have a nice walk?” She’s already got her hands back under the faucet, another pool of water building in her palms.
Bob shrugs. “It’s getting colder.”
“We’re going to have snow soon,” she tells him. “I can feel it.”
Bob ‘hm’s. He doesn’t feel it one way or the other, but he doesn’t doubt that it’s getting to be that time again.
Greta turns off the faucet and pats her face dry. She kisses Bob in passing; his hand finds the curve of her hip and asks her to stay awhile longer, long enough for him to kiss her a little more thoroughly when she does.
She smiles at him when they part, runs her knuckles along his beard. Bob has that feeling he gets sometimes, when she’s happy and he had something to do with it, where his heart feels like it might get too big for his chest with childish pride and he wants to do every stupid little thing he can to make her want to keep smiling at him like that. He kisses her again, even if the shapes of their smiles don’t fit together as nicely.
They part and she heads for the bedroom. He makes himself brush his teeth even though he still can’t make himself stop smiling.
When he’s done she’s in their room. She’s brushed her hair out of the messy pony tail it was in while she washed her face; now it’s in a long braid down her back that lets the shorter pieces around her face go. She’s changing into a pair of his old boxers and a shirt he thinks might have been his once, too, one that sits tightly on her breasts and drapes everywhere else. Bob is a fan.
He himself changes into a worn pair of sleep pants she got him for Christmas a couple years ago, but leaves his t-shirt and hoodie on. They shoo Danger off the comforter and turn down the bed together-making it every morning is a habit Bob’s mom instilled that Bob himself still can’t shake.
“Did I tell you?” Greta asks. “We got approved for the student talent showcase today.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“They didn’t like the idea of having it before winter break, they want to put it off until closer to April.”
“April?” They slide into bed and Danger waits all of two seconds before jumping back on. “Hey, bad dog,” Bob tells him, but Greta just laughs. Danger settles in on her feet, giving Bob a canine equivalent of a dirty look.
“It’s far away,” Greta agrees. “But now we’re thinking May or June might even be better. It could be a semester project.”
“It would be a fun way to end the year.”
“Especially for the seniors. And it would show the students how much they’ve improved individually. We’re going to team up with the art department now.” She flicks off the lamp next to her side of the bed. She yawns into the sudden darkness, he can hear her jaw crack with it. "Night," she tells him halfway through it. She kisses his cheek and settles on her stomach. Bob stares at the ceiling while the room adjusts to night. He rolls on his side, his alarm clock blinking 12:15 back at him. He hears the sheets rustle, wonders if she's sticking one arm under the pillow. It's the last thing he remembers thinking before he slips into sleep.
He dreams. It feels immediate, in a way his dreams usually don't--or at least didn't used to--like it was lurking, waiting for him to close his eyes just a moment too long.
In his dream he's standing on a rooftop among a group of men, four of them. They're wearing domino masks--Bob is, too; the way it curves to his cheek feels familiar rather than an annoyance. They're something in the distance, a block of shadow moving in an inorganic way. The other men are watching it like they're spoiling for a fight. Bob makes fists at his sides, feels the way his hands are heavier, more solid when he does. The feeling travels through his entire body until he feels like he's suddenly made of stone underneath the black fabric of his costume.
The shadow approaches their rooftop. Its shape does not redefine when it does; when the other men launch themselves at it--one of them flies, one of them runs, the last two shoot fire and ice respectively from their palms--but the thing ignores them like they're no more significant than flies. It stops in front of Bob. It towers over him like a wall of darkness that might as well go on until it touches the sky. Bob takes a fighting stance on what he thinks is instinct rather than a realistic response to such an enormous threat. He jabs at whatever part of the thing he can reach, but his fists go through the darkness.
The shadow quickly tires of their game. It advances on Bob, he takes a step back instinctively, then another. The shadow doesn't stop until Bob feels the edge of the rooftop at his heel like a surprise. He pitches backward, over the edge. The shadow has no more of a shape than before, but Bob can feel it watching him fall.
He awakes with a start from that sickening feel of falling. It's pervasive enough that it still clings to his hind brain. Greta beside him makes a lazy, questioning noise in the back of her throat.
The clock tells him it's 12:49.
He rolls over to wrap himself around Greta. She's pliant in her sleep, though the dog grumbles unhappily when she moves her legs.
Bob breathes in the scent of her hair, lets his body soak in the feel of hers. When his heart has stopped hammering against his ribcage he closes his eyes again, determined.
And he's still falling. The rock that protects him drags him down faster, although the fall never seems to end. The other men are standing at the edge of the building now, tiny specks next to the massive shadow so far away.
He awakes again. This time he still feels like he's falling. His hands shake with it, his legs feel unsteady when he plants them on the floor. He forces himself to stay upright, though, to trace the path to the kitchen. He turns on the light and stands at the sink, digging his fingers into the metal of the basin like it can ground him.
The clock on the stove tells him it's 1:07.
"Hey," Greta calls gently from the doorway. She comes the rest of the way into the kitchen when she knows she won't startle him. Her hands come around his chest. She kisses his shoulder before resting her cheek against it. "Again?"
"Yeah," Bob agrees. He hates how shaky his voice feels, wonders if she can hear it.
"I think you should talk to someone," she tells him.
"Like who?" There's an edge of bitterness to his voice.
Her voice hardens in response. "A therapist."
"I'm not going to a shrink."
"You need to do something, Bob. You've barely slept in two weeks." He starts to move but her arms tighten around him, asking him to stay. Her tone softens. "Just think about it?"
"You think I'm crazy." He meant it to be a question, but it comes out flat.
"No, of course not." She kisses his shoulder again, his neck. "I think you need sleep. Maybe a doctor can help."
He shrugs, but he pats one of her hands. He can't make himself say he'll think about it. He hopes she'll understand from that alone. His hands feel more stable now. "You should go back to bed. One of us should get some sleep."
"Bob--"
"Seriously. I'm just going to play some Halo."
She sighs. He can feel it in the way her breasts heave against his back as much as hear it muffled against his hoodie. She holds on for a long time after. He doesn't suggest she let go again.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. You can also comment there using OpenID.
comments there.
Pairing: Bob/Greta
Note: For carelton97. Also for hc_bingo square exhaustion and bedtime rituals schmoop_bingo. Was supposed to use the superhero square for au_bingo except that didn't really end up being enough of a focus. I've been staring at this for a week trying to figure out what it's missing, I think I just have to post it now. I'm just posting this to my DW/LJ for now, feel free to point out if there's something it's missing.
---
They're watching a movie. Bob isn't really sure what; his mind started wandering even before Greta pushed play, about the same time he sank into the couch. It's threadbare and a little lumpy in some places, a hand me down from a cousin who acquired it when a roommate moved out and left half his shit behind. Probably rescued from a trash heap before that, Bob thinks, but they don't really mind. It's comfortable enough. Bob sits against the arm, and Greta leans against his side. She sets the bowl of popcorn--made in a pot on a stove rather than the microwave, with butter infused with lime zest and a little kick of chili powder, their date night finesse--where they can both reach it but it's safe from everything but the dog's hopeful eye.
Jimmy Stewart is on the screen, but Bob can't focus enough to follow the plot. Instead he's thinking about what he needs to prep when he gets to the kitchen tomorrow, what he should order next week, whether Brian's going to find the CDs he asked for, nothing at all.
"Hey," Greta says eventually. Her hand is on his thigh, warm and companionable rather than with the promise of anything more. "You look wiped. Let's go to bed."
He looks at the screen. Jimmy's still talking, it doesn't sound like he's any closer to winding down. "Movie's not over yet."
Greta smiles. "I know how it ends, and I'm pretty sure you don't even know how it begins."
He kisses her hair. "Sorry."
"Don't be. You work hard."
"So do you. This was supposed to be about unwinding."
"For both of us, not just me. Sleeping is restful, it's why they call it sleep." She sits up and drops some popcorn for the dog. "Come on, mister. I won't take no for an answer."
“Yes, master,” he says like it’s a task he’d rather not have. The truth is, though, he’s glad for the out. “Come on, Danger.”
The dog is hunting for every last crumb of her snack, but he perks up when Bob sits up. He runs for the door before Bob can even stand, waits there impatiently while Bob pulls his leash out from behind a bunch of coats. They take the stairs because Danger is still afraid of the elevator. Bob can’t blame him; he’s not the biggest fan of feeling boxed in like that himself.
Outside it’s cold, cold enough that Bob thinks he should’ve grabbed one of the jackets. The leaves are starting to change, starting to come loose in the sharp wind that whips at them. After he’s done taking a leak Danger chases one as far as the slack on the leash will let him. “Stupid dog,” Bob snorts fondly.
They stretch their legs around the block. Their rundown apartment building takes up most of it, along with a squat little Lutheran church and a few businesses around the bus stop that the few people coming and going this late at night barely pay attention to. The owner of the convenience store is smoking outside the door when Bob and Danger pass. He gives them a once over, like he’s casing them before they can case him. He must decide he doesn’t mind what he sees, because he nods hello. Bob nods back. Danger tries to go after him to be petted but Bob keeps the leash short until they’re back around the corner.
The dog tries to walk past the door to their building but Bob isn’t up for another round. “I’ll take you for a long walk on my next day off,” he promises, but he still thinks the wag of Danger’s tail is just the slightest bit disappointed.
When they get inside he hangs the leash back up and Danger disappears toward the bedroom. Bob can hear water running in the bathroom; he detours toward the other side of the apartment where Greta is rinsing off the last of her face wash in the bathroom.
She meets his eyes in the mirror. “Did you have a nice walk?” She’s already got her hands back under the faucet, another pool of water building in her palms.
Bob shrugs. “It’s getting colder.”
“We’re going to have snow soon,” she tells him. “I can feel it.”
Bob ‘hm’s. He doesn’t feel it one way or the other, but he doesn’t doubt that it’s getting to be that time again.
Greta turns off the faucet and pats her face dry. She kisses Bob in passing; his hand finds the curve of her hip and asks her to stay awhile longer, long enough for him to kiss her a little more thoroughly when she does.
She smiles at him when they part, runs her knuckles along his beard. Bob has that feeling he gets sometimes, when she’s happy and he had something to do with it, where his heart feels like it might get too big for his chest with childish pride and he wants to do every stupid little thing he can to make her want to keep smiling at him like that. He kisses her again, even if the shapes of their smiles don’t fit together as nicely.
They part and she heads for the bedroom. He makes himself brush his teeth even though he still can’t make himself stop smiling.
When he’s done she’s in their room. She’s brushed her hair out of the messy pony tail it was in while she washed her face; now it’s in a long braid down her back that lets the shorter pieces around her face go. She’s changing into a pair of his old boxers and a shirt he thinks might have been his once, too, one that sits tightly on her breasts and drapes everywhere else. Bob is a fan.
He himself changes into a worn pair of sleep pants she got him for Christmas a couple years ago, but leaves his t-shirt and hoodie on. They shoo Danger off the comforter and turn down the bed together-making it every morning is a habit Bob’s mom instilled that Bob himself still can’t shake.
“Did I tell you?” Greta asks. “We got approved for the student talent showcase today.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“They didn’t like the idea of having it before winter break, they want to put it off until closer to April.”
“April?” They slide into bed and Danger waits all of two seconds before jumping back on. “Hey, bad dog,” Bob tells him, but Greta just laughs. Danger settles in on her feet, giving Bob a canine equivalent of a dirty look.
“It’s far away,” Greta agrees. “But now we’re thinking May or June might even be better. It could be a semester project.”
“It would be a fun way to end the year.”
“Especially for the seniors. And it would show the students how much they’ve improved individually. We’re going to team up with the art department now.” She flicks off the lamp next to her side of the bed. She yawns into the sudden darkness, he can hear her jaw crack with it. "Night," she tells him halfway through it. She kisses his cheek and settles on her stomach. Bob stares at the ceiling while the room adjusts to night. He rolls on his side, his alarm clock blinking 12:15 back at him. He hears the sheets rustle, wonders if she's sticking one arm under the pillow. It's the last thing he remembers thinking before he slips into sleep.
He dreams. It feels immediate, in a way his dreams usually don't--or at least didn't used to--like it was lurking, waiting for him to close his eyes just a moment too long.
In his dream he's standing on a rooftop among a group of men, four of them. They're wearing domino masks--Bob is, too; the way it curves to his cheek feels familiar rather than an annoyance. They're something in the distance, a block of shadow moving in an inorganic way. The other men are watching it like they're spoiling for a fight. Bob makes fists at his sides, feels the way his hands are heavier, more solid when he does. The feeling travels through his entire body until he feels like he's suddenly made of stone underneath the black fabric of his costume.
The shadow approaches their rooftop. Its shape does not redefine when it does; when the other men launch themselves at it--one of them flies, one of them runs, the last two shoot fire and ice respectively from their palms--but the thing ignores them like they're no more significant than flies. It stops in front of Bob. It towers over him like a wall of darkness that might as well go on until it touches the sky. Bob takes a fighting stance on what he thinks is instinct rather than a realistic response to such an enormous threat. He jabs at whatever part of the thing he can reach, but his fists go through the darkness.
The shadow quickly tires of their game. It advances on Bob, he takes a step back instinctively, then another. The shadow doesn't stop until Bob feels the edge of the rooftop at his heel like a surprise. He pitches backward, over the edge. The shadow has no more of a shape than before, but Bob can feel it watching him fall.
He awakes with a start from that sickening feel of falling. It's pervasive enough that it still clings to his hind brain. Greta beside him makes a lazy, questioning noise in the back of her throat.
The clock tells him it's 12:49.
He rolls over to wrap himself around Greta. She's pliant in her sleep, though the dog grumbles unhappily when she moves her legs.
Bob breathes in the scent of her hair, lets his body soak in the feel of hers. When his heart has stopped hammering against his ribcage he closes his eyes again, determined.
And he's still falling. The rock that protects him drags him down faster, although the fall never seems to end. The other men are standing at the edge of the building now, tiny specks next to the massive shadow so far away.
He awakes again. This time he still feels like he's falling. His hands shake with it, his legs feel unsteady when he plants them on the floor. He forces himself to stay upright, though, to trace the path to the kitchen. He turns on the light and stands at the sink, digging his fingers into the metal of the basin like it can ground him.
The clock on the stove tells him it's 1:07.
"Hey," Greta calls gently from the doorway. She comes the rest of the way into the kitchen when she knows she won't startle him. Her hands come around his chest. She kisses his shoulder before resting her cheek against it. "Again?"
"Yeah," Bob agrees. He hates how shaky his voice feels, wonders if she can hear it.
"I think you should talk to someone," she tells him.
"Like who?" There's an edge of bitterness to his voice.
Her voice hardens in response. "A therapist."
"I'm not going to a shrink."
"You need to do something, Bob. You've barely slept in two weeks." He starts to move but her arms tighten around him, asking him to stay. Her tone softens. "Just think about it?"
"You think I'm crazy." He meant it to be a question, but it comes out flat.
"No, of course not." She kisses his shoulder again, his neck. "I think you need sleep. Maybe a doctor can help."
He shrugs, but he pats one of her hands. He can't make himself say he'll think about it. He hopes she'll understand from that alone. His hands feel more stable now. "You should go back to bed. One of us should get some sleep."
"Bob--"
"Seriously. I'm just going to play some Halo."
She sighs. He can feel it in the way her breasts heave against his back as much as hear it muffled against his hoodie. She holds on for a long time after. He doesn't suggest she let go again.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth. You can also comment there using OpenID.
comments there.